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'"W" ,: ": , ,,:, , ', : "( -i .: :/; .,t. . {:(: $>..:< ;- . . ,) For more information, log on to www.newyorker.com and click on The New Yorker Reader link. : .. \ environments. The false association with New Age aesthetics has perhaps inad- vertently been aided by the exquisite care that ECM takes in recording him. Since the mid-eighties, Manfred Eicher, ECM's longtime director and chief pro- ducer, has given Pärt's music a distinctive ambience, a sonic halo. Even the pack- aging of the disks, all crisp lines and monochromatic fields, is a beautiful ex- emplar of minimalist style. Recordings tell only half the story, however. They remain two-dimensional experiences, whereas Pärt is intensely concerned with the positioning of music in space. It was actively stunning to hear his works in the airy, chilly churches of Copenhagen, where the music seemed to crystallize out of the air and become an organic, multivalent thing. The Es- tonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir, under Tõnu Kaljuste, and the Latvian Radio Choir, under Kaspars Putniqs, gave the music enormous immediacy: the voices buzzed against each other, then soared as one. Most commentators have overlooked the dramatic tension inherent in Pärt's work-the way an ap- parent state of equilibrium is under- mined by one or two serpentine notes, or the way small harmonic shifts can turn into seismic shocks. When, in the choral work "Beatitudes," an intricately pivot- ing chain of modulations leads through twenty of the twenty-four major and minor chords, the effect is of a huge vista opening up from a narrow space. As happens so often, Pärt has found a pre- cise musical image to explicate his cho- sen text: "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." In recent years, Pärt has stretched his tintinnabulist idiom in order to ac- commodate a freer harmonic rhythm. He has set Latin, German, English, Spanish, and Old Slavonic texts, recali- brating his language to fit the demands of each. "Kanon Pokajanen," an eighty- minute-long setting of the Orthodox canon of repentance, mixes the rawness of folk ritual with the fastidiousness of theology: The English works, such as " B . d " d " L . " h h eatltu es an Itan)T, ec 0 t e soar- ing forms of Anglican hymns. "Como Cierva Sedienta," a Spanish-language setting of Psalms 42 and 43, has a strik- ingly vibrant, almost Fauvist orchestra- tion and a richly ornamented vocal line; it is very nearly opulent. This recent work appears on ECM's latest Pärt disk, "Orient & Occident," which contains other intimations of new directions. The title piece, an elegy for strings, echoes the feverish intimacy of Benjamin Britten, whom Pärt reveres, while also forming unexpected links with Indian string writing and Arabic cantillation. The composer acknowledged his lat- est tendencies with a guilty smile. "Yes," he said. "I got a little crazy, didn't I?" He mimed a gesture that suggested a fla- menco dancer throwing tennis balls. The wild Pärt of the Estonian years, who mocked the authorities and played the holy fool, is still lurking below the sur- face. The austerity of his present style may really serve to hold the other self in check; one wonders how much turbulence lies deep within these chapels of sound, which come close to Bachian perfection. Often, in the spiritual sphere, faith hov- ers at the brink of disorder and sorrow. A t the end of our talk, I asked Pärt whether he felt 10nel)T, both as a re- ligious artist in a secular Western culture and as a classical composer in the king- dom of pop. He paused for a while, and the pan flutes filled the silence. "If lone- liness brings bitterness and anger," he fi- nally said, "then, I think, loneliness is a disease. We composers cannot brood, we cannot cultivate loneliness. Schubert, for example, never heard his symphonies in performance-they got no interest from publishers. But they are full of life. And his songs are nearer to Heaven than most music written for the church. He had the talent of love and the talent of compassion. Of course he was lonely, but his suffering gave out sweet nectar. "We cannot know all the good people in the world," he went on. "Not many of the good people are composers. Twenty years ago, my friend Valentin Silvestrov, one of the greatest composers of our time, said that nowadays great music isn't made in concert palaces. Instead, it is created in lofts, basements, and garages. Here you are, with your feet in lukewarm water, and the pan flutes are making noise-" He stopped, frustrated at the inability of either English or German to bring his image to life. He took a pen out of his pocket and put it in front of me, as if that would explain everything. "Schu- bert's pen," he said, "was fifty per cent ink, fifty per cent tears." .